


Hosts and Mulled Wine

by undertheinktree



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, South Downs, good old "that is the true meaning of christmas" talk, my usual ramblings about religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22054117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undertheinktree/pseuds/undertheinktree
Summary: "This is what Christmas should be about"
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Hosts and Mulled Wine

“The Mass is ended, go in peace.”

“Thanks be to God.”

“And Merry Christmas.”

The crowd exploded in a joyful frenzy rarely found among the solemn walls of a church. Aziraphale revelled in the atmosphere, his soul invigorated by the excitement and the anticipation that surrounded him.

As soon as the choir chanted the first note of  _Gloria in excelsi Deo_ , he found himself pulled along by the crowd rushing towards the exit, a leaf carried by a cheerful and loud tide. 

It took him almost five minutes to walk though the few metres of aisle, stopping every few steps to shake hands, kiss cheeks and smile, answering every “Merry Christmas, Mr. Fell!” with a heartfelt “Thank you, dear” or a “God bless you.”

As soon as he stepped outside, the smell of incense was replaced by a bittersweet aroma of chocolate and spices and the choir was overpowered by the less holy but not necessarily worse voice of George Michael coming from a loudspeaker.

Cold midnight air slapped Aziraphale's cheeks and he wrapped himself tightly in his coat as he scanned the dozens of happy faces rushing out of the church.

The small square was lit up by colourful lights, wrapped around lampposts and hung between buildings. They flashed intermittently, colouring the shovelled snow at the edge of the pavement red, blue, green, yellow and red again. Kinda tacky for Aziraphale's standards, but the amazed look in the eyes of the children next to him said otherwise.

Cliques of teenagers stood around discussing whatever they were looking at on a phone or badly singing along to _Last Christmas,_ mixing up the words of the verses but putting all their hearts in the chorus.

Next to the fountain in the middle of the square a food stall was besieged by a cheering crowd. Nothing when compared to the hordes of tourists that flooded the streets of London during the holidays, but remarkable nonetheless for such a small Sussex town.

The miracle or Christmas.

Or, alternatively, the miracle of free food and hot drinks.

Among woollen caps and bobble hats, Aziraphale was finally able to spot a flash of red hair. He looked as Crowley squeezed through the crowd holding two paper cups over his head, almost pouring the content on at least three heads before safely reaching a quieter area. He looked up at the church stairs, in his turn spotting Aziraphale, and smiled triumphantly at his successful spill prevention.

Mirroring the familiar smile, the angel hurried out of consecrated ground slaloming through people to reach him.

“Merry Chirstmas, Angel,” Crowley greeted him, opening his arms to welcome a hug.

“Merry Christmas, my Love.” Aziraphale curled up against his chest and kissed his lips.

“Mh,” Crowley whined. He pulled away squinting. “A bit too holy tonight.”

“Oh dear, I'm so sorry,” Aziraphale apologized, letting go of the demon. “Must be the host.”

“Don't worry. We'll wash it down with some good old consumerism. Hot chocolate or mulled wine, pick your fighter.” He presented the two paper cups.

“Would you mind terribly if I picked the mulled wine?”

“It's all yours.”

Aziraphale took his cup from Crowley's hand and thanked him with a smile.

“So, how was it?” Crowley asked.

“Not bad. Gospel of Luke,” Aziraphale replied. “The choir was splendid, but Father Parsons dragged on the sermon for a bit too long in my opinion. Did you have to wait long?” he asked.

“Nah, basically just got here. I watched TV. _Trading places_.”

“Again?”

“That is the true meaning of Christmas, Angel.”

Mulled wine was a blessing. The pungent taste of cloves caressed Aziraphale's tongue and he sighed in relief as the warmth of the beverage spread across his body, relaxing his muscles that had gotten stiff from the cold.

“I really needed this,” he commented.

Crowley hummed in approval from his chocolate cup. He wiped with a gloved finger the lenses of his sunglasses that had fogged up.

“Glad I was able to get it before rush hour.” He nodded at the crowd of people that still surrounded the food stall. “Write _Free wine_ in capital letters and human beings lose any leftover of their dignity.”

Aziraphale huffed out a laugh.

“So dramatic, you were the first in line.”

“Yeah well, that kinda proves my point.”

“Look who's here, Mr. Fell!” A young woman approached quickly, holding a half-asleep little girl over her shoulder.

Aziraphale looked at the two with a fond expression. The little girl's face was smeared with chocolate and her relaxed smile showed she had rather appreciated the food stall.

“Merry Christmas, Eilidh,” he greeted them. “Hello, Anne.”

Anne lazily raised a hand and waved her fingers.

“Excuse her,” her mother said, amused. “It's way past her usual bedtime. What do we say, Anne? _Merry Christmas, Mr. Fell_ , come on!” she encouraged, wearing the kind of voice one uses only when speaking to children.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Fell,” she finally conceded, to her mother's delight.

“There you go, good girl! And who is this other handsome man? _Merry Christmas, Mr. Crowley!”_

Anne yawned and hid her face in the crook of her mother's neck.

“I think the little brat needs to rest,” Crowley commented with a grin.

“You're probably right, I better take her home.” Eilidh gently squeezed Aziraphale's arm. “I will see you next week. Goodnight!”

The angel waved them goodbye. He liked knowing everybody in the little town. After centuries dealing with arrogant, aloof Londoners, seeing friendly faces every time he took a walk to the town centre filled him with inner peace. What to do once children Anne's age got older and realized the kind Mr Fell who used to read them stories every Friday afternoon and his spouse who always wore sunglasses hadn't aged a day, that was a problem for the future.

Crowley had finished his chocolate and was chewing the rim of the paper cup, looking at the slowly but steadily dissipating crowd. Knowing each other for six thousand years meant that Aziraphale had gotten accustomed to all of his quirks and tics and knew when they were hiding something.

“What's on your mind?” He asked, taking the cup from his hand and throwing it into a garbage can together with his own.

“I was just wondering,” Crowley said, wrapping his hand around Aziraphale's. Their fingers immediately interlocked, used to the familiar position. “Don't they bother you?”

“Who?”

“Them.” He gestured vaguely with his free hand at the people around them. “The fact that ninety percent of them only shows up for Christmas.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, perplexed.

“I'm sorry, since when do you care about how many people come to church?”

Behind his dark lenses Crowley rolled his eyes.

“I don't. I thought you did. You know. After everything you've been through, all of this still matters something to you. All these silly, old human rituals. You still put your whole heart in them.” He brushed Aziraphale's thumb with his own. Even through the wool of their gloves the soft touch filled the angel's heart with affection.

“I figured maybe the fact that all these people are only here for the hot chocolate and probably didn't listen to a word Father Parsons said could hurt you somehow.”

Aziraphale pondered over his words for a few seconds. _Let it snow_ filled the air.

“It doesn't,” he concluded out loud. “It's their choice, isn't it? If these old rituals, like you call them, mean something for them too I'm happy to share the experience. If they don't, I can't see why they should waste their Sunday mornings here.”

“Don't let the old priest hear you. I'm impressed, Aziraphale, I didn't think you were such a bad influence for the community.”

Aziraphale laughed.

“Don't say that. You know it has nothing to do with how 'good' or 'bad' a community is. And it certainly has nothing to do with how 'good' or 'bad' a person is.” He looked at him with a bright smile. “I know a guy who stepped inside a church just once in the last eighty years, and that wasn't a very pleasant experience. Still, that's the best person I've ever had the chance to meet.”

Crowley smirked.

“Sodding idiot, that guy.”

Aziraphale kissed him. Crowley didn't pull away this time and they both took their time to enjoy how well mulling spices tasted with chocolate.

“So you don't mind if humans only care about the consumerist part of Christmas?” Crowley asked once they parted.

“You know, I still don't think they do. I mean, look at them.” There were few people still lingering in the square. Couples, families, friends, all gathered to celebrate something so ancient that it probably didn't mean much to most of them. And yet there they were.

“When have you seen so many people in this square? They're all here with the people they love the most. Maybe that's all that matters. They're all happy. Who cares if it's because of the chocolate, the wine or the coloured lights. This is what Christmas should be about.” He vaguely gestured towards the church tower. “This is what all of this should be about, honestly. Who cares about what Father Parsons says.”

“Good,” Crowley commented, pleased. “Because I'm sure he says a load of bullshit.”

Aziraphale glared at him, but then he sighed.

“He does, sometimes,” he admitted. “These people are lucky somebody taught them to question what is presented to them as the absolute Truth.”

“I wonder who that was,” Crowley replied with feigned innocence.

“A sodding idiot, I've been told.”

Aziraphale laughed at Crowley's mock-offended expression and wrapped his arms around his waist, kissing his cheek.

“I know my own Truth and I'm happy with that. I hope all of them can learn their own.” He paused for a moment, frowning. “Well, I hope they learn it in less than six thousand years.”

He expected Crowley to laugh but he just held him a bit tighter.

“Merry Christmas, Angel,” he repeated.

Aziraphale marvelled at Crowley's smile, the warmth radiating from his chest, the smell of cinnamon in the air and the cheerful voices of familiar people around them.

The church bells rang one.

Thanks be to God.

“Merry Christmas, my Love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact! "Trading places" is broadcasted on Italian television every Christmas Eve since 1986!  
> Funnier fact! Despite this I've never watched it! 
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr @undertheinktree!


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